


Until We Get It Right

by Sharkaiju



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Guilt, Horror, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, pennywise fucks him as beverly marsh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharkaiju/pseuds/Sharkaiju
Summary: Set after It: Chapter One. Pennywise keeps Bill with It in the Dead Lights to torture him after the Losers take It's deal. Psychological horror, emotional torture, non-con/rape, Pennywise blows Bill as Beverly Marsh, graphic descriptions of death and gore, gender neutral Pennywise
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Pennywise
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Until We Get It Right

**Author's Note:**

> So, I don't particularly ship these two normally but I figured Pennywise could torture Bill on two points here - Georgie and Beverly - and I've had this idea for a while so here it is. This is fucked up but you've been warned.

\---

How long has it been? There is no way to know. Bill thinks it has been a very long time, years even. His body has long forgotten the basic needs of survival: eating, sleeping, defecation. How he’s survived without any of that, he doesn’t know. He only knows he is alive because the clown wants him to be alive.

The real world seems a distant memory to him now. He remembers the cistern -  _ cold and damp and smelling of children, of children’s discarded toys and clothes, of children’s corpses _ \- and the house on Neibolt and his own house ( _ but only vaguely, his mother seated at the piano, the Beethoven melody _ ), but all of that seems lifetimes ago. The DeadLights are his only reality now, the DeadLights and the thorny tangles of teeth that surround him on every side like wicked wire. 

Usually It is only those strange glowing lights, staring at him from the fathomless darkness. No  _ real _ eyes, but Bill knows It’s staring at him. He can feel It looking into his soul - whatever’s left of it. But other times It comes to him in semi-corporeal form - in the form of the clown, sometimes, the one he remembers from  _ before _ , with the Losers in that dank abandoned house, in the foul-smelling storm sewers. But most often, It comes in the forms most familiar to Bill. 

Like Georgie.

“Fear is so delicious, Billy boy,” It says to him, “but grief is the  _ creme de la creme _ .”

Sometimes, Bill half-believes it  _ is _ Georgie. That sweet round face staring up at him, eyes filled with tears, and all he says is “Why, Billy? Why?” No answer ever seems to satisfy him.

Other times, Bill knows it’s  _ not _ Georgie - those times, he screams at the monster until his throat feels bloody, screams that It could  _ never _ be Georgie, that It could never understand what it is to love, to grieve, to be  _ sorry _ . It just giggles and jeers and makes the appearance of his little brother ever more grotesque, maggots overflowing Georgie’s mouth, black blood bubbling out of his eyes, his body blue and mottled green and swollen from sewer water and madly waving the gnawed and bloody stump of his arm.

“ _Your fault, Billy,_ ” It says in a gross amalgam of Georgie’s voice and that howling whine that belongs to the monster. “ _Your fault!_ ”

Bill tries to tell himself it isn’t real, that the things the clown says ( _ that Georgie says _ ) aren’t true. When he tries that, It brings out other disguises. The faces of his friends, of the Losers.

“You lead us right to It,” Not-Richie says accusingly, his eyes dead and milky white behind broken glasses. “It’s all your fault, Bill,” Stan sobs, his face bloody with bite wounds where the clown had latched, leach-like, onto his face. He always looks the most afraid. ( _ Just like before, just like down in the sewers. He was so afraid. _ ) “You were never my friend,” Mike tells him reproachfully, hanging from a butcher’s hook in the ceiling. “You weren’t a friend to any of us.”

When the clown had taken them - when It had promised ( _ liar _ ) to let them go if they gave It Bill, when it had made him watch as, one by one, they had turned their backs on him ( _ “They’re too scared,” It had cackled in his ear, “they’re all too scared!” _ ), only to betray Its promise, Bill had assumed he would be next. It made him watch as it tore them apart, as it drank their fear and their blood and their souls until their bodies were floating lifelessly, uncannily in the cistern - but It did not kill him. No, what Pennywise had in store for Stuttering Bill was so much worse.

Sometimes It made itself look like Beverly. That seems to amuse It quite a bit. “You wanted to fuck her  _ so _ badly, didn’t ya, Billy Boy?” It drawls, its voice shrill and evil and unnatural from what Bill would ( _ almost _ ) swear were Bev’s pretty pink lips. It would blink soft red lashes at him over pretty green eyes. It looked just like her. It made him sick.

“Ya still can, ya know,” It would tease, hissing against his ear with cold breath stinking of children’s corpses. It would grab at his junk through his jeans and rub Its false body against him, sliding Not-Beverly’s hand up his thigh, pressing Not-Beverly’s lips against his neck. Bill hates it, hates his body for responding to it, hates himself for all his fuck-ups, for all his weakness, for all his inability to save them.

He couldn’t bring himself to touch her ( _ it. Not her. IT. _ ). Even when his body responded against his will, even when the thing looked just like Bev, smelled just like her, moved like her and smiled like her and made his heart and his cock ache to feel her in his arms. He would never touch It, never allow himself to be pulled into Its game.

So It wouldn’t give him a choice. It would crouch between Bill’s thighs and stare up at him with Beverly's face and Pennywise’s bulging strabismic yellow eyes. “You wanna fuck me, Billy Boy?” It would hiss, voice almost (but not quite) Beverly’s. It paws at Bill’s hard-on through his jeans. “You wanna  _ fuck my face _ ?” It giggles. Then It pulls him free with slim, pretty white hands that look just like Beverly’s, and presses a kiss to the tip of his cock with lips that feel warm and alive and so, so good. It looks up at him, and in those moments It really does look like Beverly, with her kind smile and her gentle, sweet face. Bill hates himself for enjoying it, hates how good it feels when Not-Beverley puts It’s mouth around his length, swallowing him whole, sucking him until he moans and cums with Real-Beverly’s name half-whispered on his lips. He had cried afterwards, the first time It did it; shameful tears that the clown had licked from his face with a thick, obscene tongue. “So beautiful,” It had whispered, clutching his face in Its paws in a way that was almost tender. “So, so beautiful.”

He had tried reasoning with It, once. In his desperation to find some meaning to the endless torture, to the unending dying-without-death. “What do you w-w-want?” he’d screamed down that never-ending thorny maw, into those awful unknowable lights. “ _W-what the fuck do you want from me?!_ ”

The only answer had been that insane high giggling that went on and on without pause, and a voice that seemed to originate inside his own skull: “ _ This _ is what I want!”

It always comes back as Georgie. When playing Beverly fails, when playing the Losers fails, It comes to him as Georgie. “I trusted you, Billy,” It says, fat tears spilling down the sweet, babyish face. “I trusted you, and you let me die.”

“You’re n-n-not Georgie!” Bill screams. But he knows what It says is true.

“All you had to do was keep him safe,” It growls, It’s real voice now, howling out of Georgie’s mouth. “You failed him, Billy! _You failed them all!_ ”

Bill knows it’s true. Georgie, Bev, the Losers - he let them all die. His own guilt over Georgie drove him to fanatical lengths. He had told himself, then, that it was the right thing to do, that if they killed It, they could stop It from killing any more kids. Instead Bill had only led them right to their own deaths. It  _ was _ his fault.

Bill wonders if he’s in Hell. He wonders if Pennywise will keep him here until It’s hibernation ends, if It will kill him when the 27 years is up, if It will keep him here forever.

“How long… how l-long do we have to keep d-doing this?” he asks one day, though days have lost all meaning to him.

And Not-Georgie stares up at him with Its misaligned eyes and grins with Its rows and rows of hideous eldritch teeth and giggles, “Until we get it right.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are appreciated ❤ My tumblr is sharkaiju <\---


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